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Stepping into the hallway, I squint under the fluorescent lights. The white block walls haven’t been decorated yet—probably due to the paint still drying. The sterile scene makes me feel like I could be standing in a hospital, not a college dorm. Well, except for the dark green carpet. Go Bulls.
I was hoping there would be someone else out here, equally bothered by the noise, but our two dorms are at the end of a dead-end hall, practically making up our own island.
Lucky us.
The other people in the building are probably all getting the perfect amount of rest before their first day of classes.
The music stops, and I stare at the heavy, wooden door, hoping he goes to bed.
Hoping I won’t have to do this because Rae is right. We’re going to live across from them for an entire year.
But before I have time to let the silence sink in, he’s back at it, and my fist has no problem finding the door for a few quick beats.
Nothing.
I knock again, this time making sure to pound out some of my frustration.
Still nothing.
The music falls silent, so I go to smack my open palm against the door, but it opens before my hand makes contact. I stumble forward, falling into the person on the other side.
“Whoa.” He holds his hand out to steady me but quickly snatches it back like he’s not sure he wants to touch me.
His other hand holds a guitar.
He’s staring at me with an unreadable expression. His unkempt brown curls barely touch the neckline of his faded black concert T-shirt for The Black Keys. His eyebrows pull together in the most judgmental way I’ve ever seen, and I get the sudden urge to spray him with a squirt bottle—like trying to discipline an unruly cat. I do my best to ignore that he just acted like I was something about to spill all over him, but I glare at him anyway.
I may not have noticed his eyes at first, but they’re easily the only soft thing about him. The rest of him is made up of harsh lines and sharp angles. From the set of his jaw to the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips pressed firmly together. It all contradicts the depth behind those eyes. It’s unnerving to have him stare at me, and he’s waiting for me to say something.
I’m suddenly overly aware I’m wearing nothing but cotton shorts and an oversized Fleetwood Mac T-shirt and blurt, “I need to sleep.”
He frowns. “Well, you can’t sleep here.”
“No. I—” I’m cut off by a second voice coming from inside the room.
“Who is it?” his roommate asks, and by the grogginess in his voice, I think he was sleeping.
How?
“I don’t know. Some girl. She might be drunk,” the guy in the doorway answers over his shoulder, and I gape at him. When he looks back at me, he doesn’t apologize. He cocks an eyebrow as if asking, Well, are you?
“I am not—ugh. Can you just stop playing the guitar?” This makes him blink, and after holding his attention for longer than comfortable, I prompt, “Please?” Although, that last word comes out through gritted teeth.
Wannabe Rockstar stares at me long and hard. “No.”
He shuts the door in my face.
“Seriously?” I say out loud, thinking this must be some kind of joke. Ha ha! Got you, neighbor. Did you really think I’d do such a thing?
But there’s no punchline.
There’s nothing but a damn door in front of me. I pound my fist against it again, but all I get in return is another song I don’t want to hear. Once the chorus I, unfortunately, know by heart starts, I turn on my heels and head back into my room, fuming.
“What did he say?” Rae asks, peeking out from behind her blanket.
“No.”
“No?” She pulls back the covers to get a better look at me. “Just no?”
